


The Huntsman

by merelyafigment, visionofblue (merelyafigment)



Series: Two Paths Diverged [3]
Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, am I actually managing to write a slow burn for once?, but it stubbornly remains pre-slash in my head, or am I just writing gen, still basically gen, the ship no one asked for, with incredibly subtle subtext
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:13:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26146207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelyafigment/pseuds/merelyafigment, https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelyafigment/pseuds/visionofblue
Summary: Follows"Balls, Found and Stolen"After Schillinger asks Alvarez to do a job for him, Alvarez goes to have a chat with Beecher instead. (Set during the season 2 episode "Ancient Tribes")
Relationships: Miguel Alvarez & Tobias Beecher, Miguel Alvarez/Tobias Beecher
Series: Two Paths Diverged [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1898122
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	The Huntsman

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Oz was full of bad language, homophobic and racist slurs and attitudes, terrible attitudes towards many things really, bad deeds, etc., and thus so is my fic. They were an offensive bunch. 
> 
> Author's Notes: I was really hoping I was done writing these two. Then during my rewatch, I noticed things happening on the show that put Beecher and Alvarez in the same sentence again, and I had an idea for a follow-up to my first perplexing Alvarez & Beecher fic. So here I am again, writing the pairing no one has any interest in. (I wrote and posted this before ["Balls, Found and Stolen"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26208163), but chronologically, this follows "Balls, Found and Stolen". (I need to stop typing "balls" now.)

Miguel slid into the chair opposite Beecher in the library, drawing the man's attention from whatever he was reading. Miguel would maybe figure that out in a minute, he had another purpose first. Was kind of curious about what the man would be reading, though -- something heavy and dry that like, reconnected him to his lawyer past or some shit, or fucked up Grimm fairytales that fed into whatever the hell the guy had going on now. 

Speaking of, Miguel gestured to the man's face. "Did your shitty safety razor like break or something, hermano? What's with... all this?" Miguel's gesture moved fluidly to encompass the entirety of Beecher's confusing facial hair.

"What, you don't think I look my most handsome today, Alvarez? I am very saddened to hear that."

Sarcastic motherfucker. Honestly, it just made Miguel grin, as he drummed a little beat on the table between them. 

"So it's a choice, then?" Miguel let his doubt and judgement drip from him, but you know, like, _playfully_. He came to have fun, not really be a dick.

"I'm being my most authentic self." Beecher stated, and the crazy fucker really was perfecting his mix of fake seriousness and hidden unhinged glee.

Motherfucker was just getting more entertaining, really. Miguel saw it, why that fucking Nazi was so scared of him. It was partially the creatively fucked up physical attacks Beecher had perpetrated directly on the other man before the riot. But it was this, too. His whole, unpredictable, nothing left to lose attitude. A lot of people were scared of Beecher now. Biting off the tip of a guy's dick would do that in a prison full of, well, dicks. (In both senses of the word.) 

They'd crossed paths a few times during the long stretch being shuffled through other overcrowded units before Emcity reopened. Not much, and they didn't talk a whole lot. Miguel had a lot of shit going on, taking point with his boys, and Beecher was busy cementing his new rep. That seemed to require a lot of time in the hole on the other man's part. His interesting transformation and resolve still caught Miguel's attention on the rare occasions when Beecher had swung through his peripheral, though. The times they had briefly spoken, it had stayed teasing and something that almost seemed friendly, for in here.

Miguel still wasn't scared of him. Might be because he wasn't a fucking white supremacist shithead, and he had no intention of forcing his dick anywhere near Beecher's mouth. Especially with that whacked-out new facial hair the man was sporting. 

Miguel leaned forward, shifting his weight onto his arms resting across the table, lowering his voice, but keeping it a sing-song tease. "I've got a secret."

"I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to talk about those, Miguel. It ruins the whole mystery. Plus, I think it might be against the rules of keeping them." Beecher looked sort of amused with him, too. Miguel didn't even mind Beecher dropping the formality and using his first name.

"You already know I'm a rule breaker, baby." Miguel leaned back in his chair, eyeing the other man still. "Mmm... I think you're gonna want to hear this one, Bowie."

Beecher laughed at the nickname, and closed his book. Miguel's gaze flicked down, and he cracked another smile. Fucking fairytales. Not the Grimm ones, but still. Maybe Miguel was learning Beecher better than most. 

"Do tell, Miguel."

He was pretty sure the other man did it that time just because it rhymed.

"I got one condition." He leaned towards Beecher again, holding up one finger.

Beecher's eyes narrowed. _There._ Miguel saw it. A small part of whatever was going on with the other man was an act, something he was willfully throwing himself into. Miguel understood that in a way. When he'd first landed here, he'd thrown himself into his bitter resignation that he was gonna rot hopelessly just like all the men in his family. He'd thrown himself into responsibility and leadership during the riot. Part of it was forcing yourself to commit to a path you were already on, despite it not quite being all you wanted or all you were. Sometimes, you just had to lean into it hard anyway. Part of it was fucking real, though. Maybe most of it, even, for both of them.

"You really want to try to make deals with me, Alvarez? I'm crazy, remember?" There was an edge there, now. Beecher thought Miguel was going to press him for something real and he was warning him off.

Miguel just shook his head, slight smile playing on his lips. "What were you singing earlier?"

That threw Beecher a little, but when he was thrown now, Miguel noticed he just broke out his crazy grin. "Show tunes? You want me to sing you show tunes? I have to say, you're full of surprises, Alvarez."

"Look who's talking." Miguel cocked an eyebrow to make his point very clear, before relaxing again with another tease. "I'm flattered, man. Coming from you, that's like a huge compliment."

"Ah, well. Gotta pay the piper--" 

Beecher looked like he was about to start belting 'em out, and Miguel? Well, he moved fast. It was kind of his thing. He surged forward across the table, lightly clamping a hand over the other man's mouth. That ugly facial hair was prickly against his skin. 

No, Miguel was not afraid of Beecher. Or his teeth.

But he wasn't here to fuck with him, either. Well, he _was_ , but in a _friendly_ way. Not the usual asshole way everybody fucked with everybody else in here. 

Miguel tauntingly shook the finger of his other hand back and forth in front of Beecher's face, even as he felt the other man's hot breath trapped under his palm. "Nuh-uh-uh. That's my price, Toby. No more showtunes."

Beecher didn't bite him. He just raised an eyebrow, and Miguel withdrew his hand, sitting back down fully in his chair.

"I don't know. I really like showtunes. They capture a mood." Beecher pretended to ponder it.

"Yeah, and that mood is 'annoying the fuck out of everyone around you'." Miguel rolled his eyes.

"Maybe that's the mood I'm going for." Hints of a crazy grin teased Beecher's mouth again.

"The Bowie was better, man." Miguel conceded. Now that he'd been subjected to the other shit, he found a new appreciation for it. The sound could really carry off all the high ceilings, metal, glass, and emptiness in here.

"This secret had better be worth it." Beecher gave in with a sigh, before holding up a finger of his own this time, in warning. "I reserve the right to default on payment and sing whatever I want if you don't deliver appropriate compensation for giving up my beloved show tunes. And I am the party that gets to decide if the compensation is adequate, meaning if the secret is worth it."

Yeah. Beecher probably still read law books, too.

Miguel leaned in for real this time, real close, keeping his voice hushed, even though they were alone. "Schillinger came to me. He's looking to have you whacked."

"Not that I'm an expert, yet, but you probably shouldn't warn someone before you kill them." Beecher's voice kept carrying his fuck-it-all reckless crazy lilt, but the man's face was serious.

Fucker was really wondering if Miguel was here to do it, maybe. Probably bracing himself to move, Miguel could tell from the sudden tension in the other man's body.

Miguel slumped back in his chair yet again, further this time, letting his own body language signal his lack of intent. He started idly flipping the pages of Beecher's book, but he wasn't even looking at it. 

"Nah, man. I hate that fucking Nazi cumstain. I'd rather have you around than him." And that was the truth. "I told him to go fuck himself. Not in so many words..." Miguel let his hands illustrate his words as he spoke. "But I think I got my point across. That asshole is fun to fuck with, man. You know he offered to smuggle tits for us through the mailroom? With how much he fucking hates drugs? Swallowed all that bullshit Nazi pride. It was priceless."

Beecher grinned wide, and it was mostly that scary one he was leaning into now, because that was the path he was walking, but it was a little bit _not_. Was a little bit genuine, Miguel thought.

"Well, thank you, Alvarez. I do believe that secret is worth giving up my love of show tunes." Again, there was mostly a deranged glee to Beecher's words, but a little of something real was still hidden away.

Miguel's mood dropped a little, as he picked at the edges of the book's pages. "You know if that white power motherfucker was desperate enough to come to my Cuban ass, I wasn't his first fucking stop."

"I know." Beecher turned serious, catching his eye. Didn't look crazy now. He looked hard and weary. The kind that got beat into you and earned through pain. Miguel knew a little about that, too. The other man lightened up fast, though, swinging back like mercury. "You're a little too delightfully caramel-colored for dear old Vern to consort with unless he's really running scared, don't you think?"

Miguel didn't get pissed off at that, because honestly, the caramel thing sounded weirdly complimentary the way Beecher said it. Maybe it was a new shade of his crazy, getting almost flirty or some shit. But for some reason, it wasn't in a way that made Miguel bristle.

"I'm just saying, watch your back, Tobias." His warning was more serious this time. Yeah, he had meant it when he'd said he'd rather Beecher come out of this than the Aryan asshole, and it wasn't just because of the whole Nazi thing.

"Don't worry. I can handle it." Beecher cocked his head, studying Miguel for a minute, before he got up to leave. "I guess that almost makes you the huntsman."

Miguel raised an eyebrow in question, which Beecher responded to by sliding his discarded book closer. 

"Snow White." Beecher added. Must've been related to the fairytale then. "Thank-you, Alvarez." He didn't sound crazy at all that time, and the serious eyes purposefully meeting Miguel's didn't look it, either.

Miguel felt even better about his choice to come talk to Beecher, even if he couldn't pinpoint the exact reason. He flipped open the book as Beecher left, looking for the story of the pretty girl with the world's shittiest stepmom to find out what the hell Beecher had been talking about.

***  
End

**Author's Note:**

> Beecher is talking about the huntsman from Snow White (not the movies). It depends on which retelling you're going by, of course, but basically the Evil Queen tasks the huntsman with killing Snow White for her. He leads Snow White into the woods and spares her instead, returning to the Evil Queen with some sort of animal's organs as proof he killed Snow White.
> 
> Author's lament: I would like to stop having ideas with these two now, please. Before they start making out or something. (Unless O'Reily miraculously comes to join them, in which case I could more easily come to terms with writing this as a series. Maybe he and Beecher could discuss the frightening things they're both doing with their hair during this period.)


End file.
